


A Woman Scorned

by Talkin_to_a_Lady



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bondage, Chair Sex, Cock Tease, F/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Revenge Sex, Rope Bondage, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24496513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talkin_to_a_Lady/pseuds/Talkin_to_a_Lady
Summary: When the opportunity comes to grab the $5,000 Bounty for a friend you have missed for a long time, you think it's about time you got something a little extra.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Original Female Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Reader
Kudos: 23





	A Woman Scorned

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 1899. Arthur is tied up by an old friend

You stood there in Saint Denis Police Station, open-mouthed, half smiling in disbelief, looking down at the $5,000 Reward Poster thrust into your hand by Lemoyne’s Marshall.

 _You’ve grown up, Mister Morgan_ , you think, slightly irritated by the handsome rugged illustration staring back at you. Ten years is a long time and it makes for opening very tightly sealed feelings, “And _why_ exactly did you drag me this far South just to hand me a poster?”  
“Well… we’re wanting to do this here as we’re not sure how many ears they have listening, but we believe they’re actually further North, much closer to your own stomping ground, and… Because, _despite our reluctance to believe it_ ,” the Marshall cleared his throat, “You, young lady, are the best Bounty Hunter out in these parts, and you’re our best chance of getting this man.”  
You huff a small chuckle out your parted lips, “ _Oh, you have no idea how right you are_. Thank you, Marshall, should I make my way back towards home then?”  
“I think that might be smart, Miss Y/L/N.”  
You neatly fold the parchment and place it in your pack, nodding a pleasant farewell to the men, and make your way back to the Train Station; the trip back would be a good time to reflect on this spectre reappearing in your life.  
Unbeknownst to the United States Law Enforcement Agencies, the reason you were so good at your job, was because you had been on the other side of it; running with the Van der Linde Gang yourself, back West over 10 years ago. You’d been caught trying to mug a young John Marston which had ended up with you in a fist fight with a boy five years your junior, which almost got you killed for your trouble. You had been lifted easily off the boy by your dress collar by one hand of Dutch Van der Linde. You were feral and angry and made even angrier by Dutch’s utter amusement by it, “My, my! What an ornery little miss we have here!”  
“I ain’t a little miss, _old man_!” You’d spat in his eye and kicked him in the shin, only to be pinned at the arms by a 22-year-old Arthur Morgan.  
“You carry on and you won’t be nothin’ but six feet under.” He growled in your ear from behind.  
“Don’t be such a sourpuss, Arthur,” Dutch smirked, wiping his eye with a fine cotton handkerchief, “I’m sure this, whatever-she-likes-to-refer-to-herself, has as many reasons to be angry as you or John… But I should tell you, _Missy_ , of all of us? John is the least likely to have anything of worth on him, he’s a goddamn child!”  
“He told me he had money.” You mumble embarrassedly, “I can’t see why he’d lie to a girl.”  
Arthur’s grip tightened slightly against you as he guffawed loudly in your ear, “How old are you?”  
“Seventeen,” you struggle  
“Well then there you are!” Dutch laughed, “Let her go, Arthur, she’s not harming anyone!”  
“’cept me!” a miserable cracking squeak grumbled out from little John Marston as he tentatively tapped his rapidly swelling eye.  
“Well then, you’ve learnt a valuable lesson about lyin’ to impress cute seventeen year olds that can _thoroughly_ kick a little boy’s ass!” Arthur ruffled John’s hair mockingly as John took a swipe for his hand. You followed them as they sauntered away; not one to be ignored or left embarrassed and empty-handed, you’d told them you’d follow them wherever they went until they fed you or gave you some money. And if they didn’t? Well, you would tell the law that they robbed you. Not the best way to ingratiate yourself, but it worked on Dutch who was happy to bring you into the Camp if nothing more than for amusement. They found having a young woman in their midst handy for more than one reason; you became a ward to Susan Grimshaw, and could also glean useful information from people seeing some doe-eyed young waif asking questions in town, and the men became a pushover for robbing.  
Despite your bumpy start, John and Arthur took to you one way or another; John at the mercy of his hormones wouldn’t stop sniffing around you, seemingly the black eye and knee to his groin at your first meeting hadn’t dampened his ardour, but – obviously – you weren’t remotely interested; you had always had your head turned by Arthur. He had taken it upon himself to try his hand at mentoring you like Dutch had him. Though his biggest mistake had been neglecting to realise you were eighteen, had learnt most of these skills yourself, and that you were a real cocky madam. Anything beyond trying to help you improve your shooting and you’d roll your eyes and huff “Okay, Daddy, seein’ as I’m apparently five, _you show me how to light a fire_!”  
“You know what? Never mind, just freeze your ass off then, I don’t care!” he’d throw the sticks down and march off in a sulk, while you took matches from your pack and lit the fire with them smugly, and you loved to annoy him to see his face clench with a scowl.  
You sit on the train and drag your mind back from those moments and pull the poster from your satchel and look at the face staring back at you; though crudely drawn, you can see the same smart-alec glint in his eyes. You took a deep breath and smiled at him, biting the edge of your lip, “ _oh I can’t wait to bump into you again, Mister_ ,” you mutter to yourself darkly. He never had apologised to you for how he had humiliated you – though you’d not given him a lot of time to do so.  
You had recently turned 19, and your feelings for him had intensified if nothing else. You hadn’t ever been particularly good at hiding your emotions, and he seemed to revel in the attention; he would grin as he caught you looking a little too long at him around Camp, then instantly walk up to you, stand too close and check if “you alright, gurl?” while taking a deep inhale of a cigarette. You’d blush and he’d laugh, patting your shoulder as he walked off, “Yeeeaaah you’re alright.”, he’d purposefully point out boys in and around towns and ask why you weren’t with them, knowing full well why.  
Then one night he went too far. You had been working on the less finer parts of Camp life; scrubbing clothes clean, when a cocky young Arthur swaggered back into Camp, drunk out of his mind, laughing at whatever conversation he’d been having back at the saloon, “THERE SHE IS!” he yelled, brandishing a bottle in your direction, “That foolish gurlie!” you shut your eyes as he sidled over, a big stupid, dumb grin on his face, beer on his scraggle of face fluff, “Whatchu upta, huh?”  
You sighed, “ _Chores,_ Arthur. _Your chores, in fact_ , that you neglected to do before you went out and got blind drunk!”  
He slumped down next to you and nudged you with his arm, “Ah! But that’s scrubbin’ clothes! _I thought you’d like the chance at gettin’ your hands on my drawers at last._ ” He winked with a small hiccup. You saw red and threw the entire bucket of filthy water over him, drawers and all, and stomped off into the nearby woods.  
“HEY!” he yelled after you, staggering through the dark to keep up, “WHAT THE HELL??”  
“You serious?! You’re a goddamn _asshole!_ You yellin’ shit like that in front of everybody?! You ain’t all that, Mister, you know? You’re twenty five, time for you to grow up!”  
“Woah, woah, shhshhhhh” he drunkenly whispered, “it was just a bit of fun,” he put his hands on your waist and stood there, sopping wet with a dumb grin across his face, “I’m just teasin’.”  
“Well it ain’t funny.” You hated him; he could treat you worse than any other person and you’d let him, no questions asked.  
“I know, I know.” He smirked, “I can tell you weren’t laughin’.” He leaned into you with a slight sway, “You ain’t mad really though, I know you,” a small side smirk played across his face as he edged ever closer to your lips, your eyes closed in expectation.  
“ **WOOOOOOOBOOOOWWOOOWOOOOOOOOOOOOO!** ” A loud holler from the woods made you jump out of your skin as you saw a group of four other young men around you, looking back at Arthur you saw him laughing with some friends he’d made in the Saloon, “I told you, fellas!”  
You burst with fury and lunged at him, your hands around his throat, and a knee to his guts. It took two of his friends to prize your murderous grip from his neck.  
He stood up and dusted himself down, “Christ, gurl, coulda killed me!”  
“I SHOULDA KILLED YOU!” you struggle out of the grip of his friends and march past him, barging your shoulder purposefully into him as you went.  
“Christ, she might’ve left a mark! Well, that might be interestin’ to explain to Mary!” His final words to his friends make you halt albeit momentarily. Those were the last words you heard from his mouth. You left that night  
You sigh and fold away the poster as the train pulled into Rhodes Station, _of course they’d be up here_ , you think to yourself, _old Grey hates Bounty Hunters_. It was the reason you didn’t mind living just outside of the town; you never had to work in it. You’re about to unhitch your horse just as you see a prison cart pull up and three very recognisable men following on horseback in the shapes of Dutch, Hosea and a much brawnier Arthur Morgan. You move around the back of the buildings and listen in on the conversations.  
“I told you Arthur would deliver,” you hear Dutch casually praise to the Sheriff, “he has a _passion for Justice_!” you roll your eyes and smirk at the very idea. Dutch always did make you laugh. They had given themselves fake last names by all accounts, but Dutch’s tone was unmistakeable. You went back to your horse, and rode to your cabin, thinking how best to get your reward.

For the first time in a long time, you spent every evening in the Parlour House Saloon in Rhodes; dressed in some of your best looks and wasting them waiting for the vain hope of bumping into Arthur. You decided that a taste of his own medicine might be the most fun way to cash in on this bounty, and you had ensnared some of your bounties this way in the past. Other than Arthur, you’d not been too lacking in suitors as you got older. One warm evening you trudge your way into the bar, brushing the dust from your cream dress. As you look straight ahead you see exactly the man you’d been (im)patiently waiting on. He’s leaning on the bar; a thin white cotton shirt with its sleeves rolled to the elbow, the hint of a bandanna peeking out from its collar, you see the light dampness of sweat marks follow his spine as the shirt tapers tightly into a pair of tight work pants, adorned with a worn leather gun belt hugging his hips. You smirk, adjust your bodice, and walk across beside him, ordering a glass of Whiskey. You take the glass from the bar and turn, leaning backwards on your elbows, looking nonchalantly across to the pianist. You can feel Arthur’s head turn towards you.  
It takes him a minute or two, partly because his eyes have got waylaid by your cleavage, then suddenly he sees your face, “Y/N?” the delight in his voice momentarily throws you, “what’re you doin’ here?”  
You look at him and turn yourself to fully face him, leaning casually at the bar, “Well, well, _Arthur Morgan as I live and breathe!_ ”  
“What’re are you doin’? I mean, how are you? You’re lookin…” you catch him scanning your body briefly, “…well, I mean, It’s err-ah it’s good to see you!”  
“Which part of that would you like me to answer first?” you purr playfully, a lingering smile across your lips, he seems flustered and confused already.  
“uhm… I mean-“  
You sigh and stand up straight, draining your Whiskey and slamming the glass down on the bar ready to be refilled, “I live not far from here, I’m well thank you, Yes I _am_ lookin… _well_ , and I’m sure you think it is good to see me.”  
He rubs his neck and laughs, “How long’s it been now? Ten Years?”  
“Somethin’ like that,” you raise your glass to your lips without ever leaving his gaze, “ _How’s Mary?_ ”  
“Aaaah _shit_. You remember that, huh?”  
“Well it ain’t exactly somethin’ a woman forgets seein’ as it left her _homeless_.” You try and keep your irritations to a minimum. It was made twice as difficult by the absolute frustration that that man had just grown more handsome with age. You wince a smile at him, “So…?”  
“I have no idea how she is.” He mumbled, “She left me. Married some rich type that her father approved of.”  
“Ain’t life a bitch?” You signal for the bottle of Whiskey and squeeze Arthur’s arm half-affectionately, he certainly has become a man, “C’mon, let’s go sit upstairs and catch up.”

You spend the next few hours talking about everything that the Gang has been through in the last decade; the people who joined, and those that fell, you lean in to him and laugh, you touch his arm lightly, you do all the things you know guys like. You reminisce over the less testing times together in Camp, all the while plying Arthur with drink.  
“Yoouu should come see usss! Dutch would be glaaad ter see ya!”  
You laugh, “Oh if Dutch missed me, he’d have come searchin’.”  
“He were sooo mad the night yoouu left,” Arthur chuckled, “mmade uss mooove the Cammp just incasse. Misss Grimshaaww kickkked my asss _hard_. I never had sssuch a beeatin’.” He laughs and looks up at you, his green-blue eyes glazing, “I missssed you.” He smiled and leaned to the bottle as you snatch it away from him.  
“I think you need to slow down, Mister, you are in no state to get back home.”  
He shrugged, “Ih’mm okay.”  
You smile, “Tell you what. Leave your horse here, I’ll take you to mine, it ain’t far, but the fresh air will sober you up a bit. You can stay at my pla-”  
“Okay!”  
His eagerness takes you back and you genuinely laugh as you get up and try and heave the hulking mass onto his feet and stumble him down the stairs out into the warm night. You guide him towards your horse, “You neeed a hand up in that dressss?” he asks with that boyish twinkle on his face. The nineteen-year-old you would have easily swooned, not now.  
“I got here all by myself I’m pretty sure I can get home. I’m a big girl these days, Arthur.”  
“ _Yes you are_ ” he growled at you, before making an absolute hash of pulling himself onto the back of your horse, dragging himself belly first before swinging his legs over and sitting heavily against your back, his hands twitching nervously against your hips.  
“You’re gonna fall off if you don’t grab onto me, Arthur, _I ride hard._ ” You smile to yourself as you hear his breath hitch briefly before clutching your hips with strong hands, kicking your own hunger into the front of your mind. You set off quickly towards your homestead. There’s no conversation as you travel, you’re hoping to god he isn’t asleep, or trying desperately not to be sick on you. You feel his head rest on your shoulder, “You best not be fallin’ asleep back there!”  
“No ma’am,” he said, “just rememberin’ when I tried teachin’ you to ride a horse and you called me ‘Pa’.” he laughed.  
You slow your horse as you see home appear out of the horizon, “I think if you recall, I called you _Daddy_ in those days.”  
You feel him smile across your shoulder as he lets out a small gruff grunt, “I remember.” His hands flex around your hips.  
“Here we are,” you chirrup lightly trying to keep your own urges under control. The last thing you need is him knowing he still has an effect on you.  
He looks up as you remove his grip and slide from your saddle, “Hey this is a nice place! How’d you get it?”  
“By workin’!” you reply as you watch him swing himself down to stand with you, “I’m pretty good at what I do.”  
“Oh?” he enquires with a raised eyebrow, “and what’s that?”  
“Ohhh, you’ll see.” You grin and take his hand, leading him into your home.

You let him walk through ahead of you and you lock the door, “Here, gimme your coat,” he lets you peel it off him as he shrugs it from his broad shoulders, he’s distracted by your house as you go to your satchel by the door and reach for your gun, “You know, this really is a nice place you got here, Y/N, I always hoped someone would end up in somethin’ like this, what was it you said you did again?”  
“I’m a fuckin’ Bounty Hunter, Arthur Morgan!” He stops dead as he turns to you, your revolver pointed square at his face.  
His eyes widen, “What’re you doin’ Y/N?” he raises his hands slowly.  
“Shut up. Sit down.” You gesture to the kitchen chair beside him.  
“Is this a joke?”  
“I thought you of all people would remember how I don’t find things like this funny.” You pull back the hammer until the _click_ snaps, “ _so sit down_.”  
Hands still raised, he sits slowly down, “Look, if this is about what happened back then I’m sorr-“  
“Oh! You’re sorry now huh? Now there’s a gun in your face and I can get _five thousand dollars_ for you!” You side-step to your lasso without taking your eyes or gun from him and then make your way towards him, “don’t think about movin’.”  
He sighs as he lets you tie the rope around his waist, “I ain’t gonna. But you ain’t gonna hand me in, c’mon, this is me, you know me.” His voice trails off as he watches you slide to kneel between his legs and lightly reach your hands to unbuckle and remove his gun belt, dumping it on the table with a _thunk_.  
“I ain’t known you for 10 years, and you know what? I’m a little sick of your chatter. How about you shut the hell up unless I tell you to speak.”  
You grab your other ropes, tie his ankles to the chair legs and his hands behind his back, his mood turns as he realises you’re serious, “Alright _what the hell is this_? When I came here, I thought… Well it don’t matter what I thought _BUT IT WEREN’T THIS!_ Get me outta these GOD DAMN Ropes, woman!” he strains against them, his teeth bared  
“I don’t remember tellin’ you, you could speak, _Mister Morgan_.” You step up to him, “and you might wanna save your energy, _you ain’t the first fella I’ve tied up_.” You see him look quizzically at you, paused for a second as he lets those words play on his still slightly alcohol-induced mind, “In fact,” you sigh as you stand straddled over him, “maybe we should just keep you quiet so as not to rile me.” You lean over him, your chest grazing against the stubble on his face, and nimbly remove his bandanna.  
“I don’t think that dress is exactly the right clothin’ for hostage takin’.” He manages before you shove the black cotton fabric deep into his mouth and step back away from him.  
You look down at yourself, smoothing the material down from your chest to your waist, you turn and give a sly smile to him as he watches, unblinking, “As much as I am disappointed in you openin’ that mouth of yours again, you’re probably right about the dress.” You shrug. You turn to him and take your time unbuttoning it, untying the petticoats, and stepping out of the soft folds of fabric, leaving you in only a corset, lace shorts and low-heeled ankle boots. Arthur huffs a small yelp from his throat as his breathing gets heavier.  
You lean down over him, “I bet you never thought you’d see li’l old me all dressed so nice, huh Arthur?” You run your fingers lightly over his forehead to his cheek, dragging across his rough jawline and playfully landing at his throat, leaving a line through the sweat, “Just think, all those years _wasted_ because you were a jackass,” you lift your fingers from him and put them to your mouth, enjoying the smoky taste of salt from his skin, he grunts and rolls his head back.  
You take another chair and sit opposite him, sliding your bare legs together, “Do you still smoke, Arthur?” he nods, eyes transfixed on your legs, “Cigarettes?” He nods, staring at your chest, “I could never really enjoy a cigarette,” you grimace, “ _too small_.”  
You raise an eyebrow as you reach across the table for your Stogie, “Cigars were always more my thing.” You lock your eyes on him bite the tip of the cigar and spit it towards him, “ _much bigger, full of taste_.” You grin as you slide the tobacco roll into your mouth and light it, watching the sweat soak through Arthur’s shirt, clinging to every sinew of his body, straining to get close to you. You close your eyes as you suck deeply on it, and slowly blow the smoke from your lips, “of all the things you tried to teach me, _smokin’_ ain’t never one of them, huh, _Daddy_?” his head drops with a groan, “Oh, don’t get sad!” you say as you walk up to him, your cigar held tightly between your teeth, and kneel at his feet, lifting his chin so you can see his eyes; focused and confused all at once, “you’re lookin’ a little warm there, Arthur, why don’t we fix that?” You untie the rope from his middle seeing as he’s safely secure, and stand up slowly, walking over to the water jug on the side. You pour a tall drink and sway your way back to him, placing the drink and cigar beside you on the table as you sit on his lap, your legs either side of his own. He is so tall, and his thighs so thick that your toes barely hit the floor. His legs are burning up and you eye him mischievously as you feel the hard, thick tightness fighting between his left thigh and clothing. He blushes a little, and huffs breathlessly through his gag as he looks away.  
You start delicately unbuttoning his shirt, “My, my, it’s like it’s been rainin’ in here!” you tease as his once-white shirt is almost see-through now. You peel it back from him and run your hands across the man’s chest, twisting the hair through your nail tips, getting lost in the moment, “ _You really did grow up didn’t ya?_ ” his eyes twinkle darkly as you look at him. You scan his face; the slight crags of age and a hard life at the corner of his eyes, the dark brush of facial hair above his thick, soft lips, and the one space a scar stopped anything from growing, “I remember this scar,” you touch it delicately as you see Arthur’s eyes flutter closed, “Some fella tryin’ to cut your mouth up for bein’ a _wiseass_.” You smirk as you run your hand over his glistening cheek, “Your face all covered in blood. I had to clean you up. And here you are again, _just a big old mess_.”  
You reach for the water and take one more sip before pulling the bandanna from him slowly and raise the drink to his lips, “you look like you could use this.” He drinks deeply, barely taking a breath until he moves his head away from you. You feel your own skin glistening with sweat and lift the bandana to dry off a little.  
“Jus-just don’t…” you stop and look at him as your hand is raised, he sighs his voice husky, “don’t put that back in my mouth. _Please_. I promise I’ll keep quiet.”  
You place your arms over his shoulders with a wicked grin as you briefly, slowly move your hips back and forth against his trapped length, and he clamps his lips tight together, “Somethin’ is tellin’ me you ain’t gonna be very good at keepin’ quiet for much longer, Mister Morgan.” You stand back up and run his bandanna across your throat down into your cleavage.  
“Look, I’m sorry, about everythin’. I ain’t the same person I was then. I was a moron, you’ve every right to be pissed off, but please, just don’t hand me in.”  
You stop and look bewildered at the man tied to a chair, drenched in sweat, panting, muscles straining against their bonds, and you laugh.  
“What?”  
“You’re sittin’ there, half naked, sweatin’, tied up by me, somethin’ south of your waistband keepin’ me _very intrigued_ , and all you ask is to not be handed to the law?”  
Arthur looks at you desperately, the thought of realisation creeping slowly over his face, “Well if you untie-”  
“You know what? You’ve already broken your promise.” You march back to him and shove his bandana back in his mouth, “should never trust an Outlaw,” you wink as he breathes deeply through his nose, the taste of you, of your perfume mixed and swirled with his own on his tongue as you straddle him again, taking his face in your hands, “ _Shame_ ,” you purr, “I’d have loved to shut your mouth myself.” You move your hands to his neck, keeping your eyes on him as you run your lips lightly across his cheek bones, breathing warm, calm breaths as you run your nose up behind is ear and whisper, “Maybe I should teach _you_ a lesson hmmm, _Daddy_?” you feel his whole body strain forward as you playfully run your teeth through his earlobe, his feet planted firmly on the ground as his hips push upwards with sheer need, as he forces a long low moan through the bandana.  
You use his position to run your hands down to his waistband and unbutton his fly, pulling the back of his pants down over his ass. You push his hips back against the chair as you stand low over him, your legs straight, your hips jutting out behind you, working his pants down to his knees, he groans as you finally free him; running your hands firmly up his sweat-slicked thighs, taking the briefest of strokes up his shaft, his whole body convulses as he squeezes his eyes tight shut, his head falls backwards as you lean up and take the bandana out from his mouth, and walk away from him.  
“Where-where’re you goin’?”  
“Not far, I’m just gettin’ a little warm myself.” You stand in front of him, untie your lacing and unhook your corset, dropping it on the table.  
“Y/N” he says breathlessly.  
“Don’t you wish you could touch this?” you ask, running your hands down from your collar bone, over your breasts and down towards your knicker line.  
“ _Yes_ ” he nods breathily  
“And _this?_ ” you bite you lip with a grin as you smooth your hands down into your underwear.  
He pulls so hard against the ropes you hear the chair creak under pressure, “Just untie me and I’ll show you.”  
“I may have been a fool for you once, Mister Morgan, but I ain’t never been a _dumbass_.” You walk back to him, “You’d be _sooo maaad_ if I untied you right now.” You sit back on his lap, his length twitching against you as you drag his face forward, kissing him hard, wetting his dried-out mouth with your tongue. His head drops to your neck hungrily as you take him in your hand, softly stroking him, turning your palm up and down its warmth, pulling yourself against it, rocking yourself with your hand’s motion. He grits his teeth as he pushes his face into your hair, groaning your name, his heart audibly thudding against his chest. You pull your knickers to the side, and shift from your hand controlling him, to your core. You both moan loudly.  
“Don’t you go finishin’,” you tell him, “this is your apology.”  
“ _FFFFFFffffffffff_ ” is all he can manage, as he feels your tightness over him, warm and wet, “ _then hurry up_.”  
You give him a small, stinging slap across his face, “you don’t get to tell me that.” He nods defeatedly as you begin to roll your hips over him, his thickness stroking against you, hitting every sweet point. You put one hand to the back of his neck for support as you put your middle finger from the other in his mouth before taking it to your clit,  
“ _Christ, woman, just give me one hand back_ ” he stares across your whole body, as you allow every wave of pleasure to hit you.  
“ _Don’t make me slap you again, Mister Morgan_ ” you whisper, your eyes closed at the pinnacle of ecstasy. You pull both arms up to his shoulders, gripping tightly as he thrusts himself up to let you grind hard against him, a desperate growl as he bites hard on his bottom lip as you grip him tightly with your thighs, throwing your head back as you call his name.  
You begin to feel him buck under you, his eyes glazed, his skin almost steaming. You reluctantly pull yourself off him before he can finish, he looks like he might cry, “don’t worry I ain’t leavin’ you like that.” You smirk as you slide your hand back onto him, moving quickly with your own slick, “Cum for me, Arthur.” You whisper deeply into his ear, as he buries his head against you, biting at your shoulder and neck, lightly licking behind your ear as he grunts and growls, lifting himself into you over, and over, letting your hand slide and twist quickly with him. He strains, forcing his breath harshly through puckered lips, you hear the wood of the chair crack and creek as all his strength forces an overpowering climax from him, his seed spilling across your legs, hand and up your belly.

He pants, exhausted, his head dropped forwards as you step from him, “don’t be usin’ my bandanna again.” He jokes huskily. You allow yourself to laugh as you wipe yourself down with a towel.  
“Can you- can you at least give me a little dignity back?” he mumbles embarrassed at the sight he must be posing; drenched in sweat, his shirt rolled back over his arms, his pants around his knees. You laugh again and come back to him. He avoids looking at you as you fix him back up, “thanks” he mumbles.  
“For which part?”  
He chuckles breathlessly and shakes his head, “I always knew you were crazy, but woman I had no goddamn idea.”  
“I ain’t crazy, Arthur, I was just teasin’ ya. You remember what that’s like, right?” You call from your bedroom, returning pulling on an oversized shirt.  
He looks at you, “You gonna cut me free?”  
“Depends,” you shrug, leaning against the table, taking up the cigar again, “you gonna kill me if I do?”  
“In all honesty, Y/N, I almost forgot why I was even bound like this. And I don’t think I have the energy to kill you tonight.” He smirks as he looks up at you.


End file.
